


Strange Bedfellows

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:39:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The need to be in each other’s comfort outweighed their physical needs, which resulted in them sharing a room and bed for the night. It would hardly be the first time they’d done so and, while none would readily admit it, each of them slept easier pressed against the warm bodies of their brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This short story is in response to a request from AZGirl who wanted to know the backstory behind something I'd written in my last story Treason; the section that sparked the request is included below. As is always the case, the story took on a life of its own and I hope it still satisfies. Five chapters in all, set in season one, and will be posted one per day. Enjoy!

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

From: “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost.

 

From _Treason_ : 

The need to be in each other’s comfort outweighed their physical needs, which resulted in them sharing a room and bed for the night. It would hardly be the first time they’d done so and, while none would readily admit it, each of them slept easier pressed against the warm bodies of their brothers. d’Artagnan had been slow to accept the idea of sleeping in the same bed with them, and had been even more uneasy the first time he’d displaced one of the others, forced into bed due to an injury, thus driving another to sleep on the floor. But the three had been persistent in their efforts, soothing his fears with calming words and soft touches, and showing him through their actions that they would always take care of one another, the simple give and take between them just another demonstration of their deep bond.

* * *

The first time he’d observed them sharing a bed had been after Porthos’ injury as he’d protected Bonnaire. The injury had been grave and d’Artagnan had been certain that he could see the white of the man’s bone underneath, a sight that made him retreat quickly lest he embarrass himself with the ill-timed purging of his stomach. Aramis clearly understood the severity of the wound and he and Athos had argued about the need to tend to Porthos quickly in order to save his life, d’Artagnan finding the dynamics between the men disconcerting, having only witnessed their incredible devotion and solidarity up to that point. The revelation of Athos’ title and ownership of the grand house to which they’d retreated had only created more questions and the tension between Aramis and Athos continued long after the medic had cared for Porthos’ injury.

 

Athos had remained at his friends’ sides as Aramis had painstakingly cleaned and stitched the deep slice, dousing it liberally with copious amounts of the Comte’s wine and possibly, d’Artagnan thought to himself, taking a bit of enjoyment in the fact that so much of Athos’ favorite drink was being used in the process and would never find its way into the older man’s stomach. The thought made him wonder again at the ties between these three men, who seemingly presented a united front to the outside world, but when viewed through the eyes of an insider, showed more cracks and fractured crevices that one would imagine. 

 

When Aramis had finished tending to Porthos’ wound, he’d stayed close, watching for any signs of infection or fever which would be just as deadly as the shock and trauma of the initial injury.  Athos had wandered off then and none of them had tried to follow, d’Artagnan poking around the room they were in while keeping a half-eye on Bonnaire, Aramis having ensconced himself firmly in a chair at Porthos’ side. It was hours later when Athos reappeared, his face drawn and haggard, obviously deeply troubled at being back in his family home. A glance in Aramis’ direction confirmed that the medic had concluded the same and his features softened somewhat, although it was difficult to tell whether he was ready to completely forgive the older man for his earlier lapse in judgement.

 

As evening approached, draping the old house in darkness and deepening the shadows that lingered in the corners of the room, Porthos finally showed signs of waking. The sigh of relief emitted by the Spaniard might have been missed by his patient and by Bonnaire, but both d’Artagnan and Athos heard it, sharing a look of understanding in a rare moment of silent communication. The moment brought a flush of warmth to d’Artagnan’s chest since he’d often observed the others sharing their thoughts with nothing more than a glance, but he had not been a party to the experience until now.

 

The spell was broken seconds later when Porthos groaned, a low, rumbling sound that came from deep within his chest and conveyed the full agony that he was in from the seriousness of his wound. Aramis’ body language grew tense immediately at the sound, his joy at seeing his friend waking turning to worry as the large man was almost overwhelmed by the wall of pain that was crashing down upon him. Aramis’ hand was in Porthos’ even before the large man was fully aware, the medic’s other hand carding through his friend’s hair as he whispered words of assurance to the man, doing his best to ease the transition from sleep to wakefulness.  

 

Minutes went by in strained silence, the only sound Aramis’ soothing voice. Eventually, Porthos managed to get a grip on the pain, aided in large part to how hard he squeezed Aramis’ hand if the look on the medic’s face was any indication. As Porthos’ breathing evened out, Aramis’ head lifted and he nodded to Athos, the older man moving immediately to the medic’s side to help lift the large man to a seated position. They held him there, Porthos’ eyes squeezed shut against the ache in his shoulder, until he was ready to move, the two men at his side instinctively attuned to him. The three began to shuffle from the room, d’Artagnan following along behind, his curiosity piqued since he couldn’t recall any conversations between Athos and Aramis that indicated where they might be taking their friend. The trip was relatively short, Athos leading them to a bedroom where a double bed sat against one wall, the dust cover already having been removed and the blankets pulled back.

 

The process of settling Porthos into the large bed was accompanied by more soothing words and touches from the medic, the man unwilling to leave the large man’s side until it was clear that he was resting as comfortably as possible, his injured shoulder propped up by several pillows to keep the weight off his wound. When Aramis was satisfied, he stood up to take a step away from the bed, another look in Athos’ direction conveying a message that d’Artagnan was not privy to. Athos held the other man’s gaze for several seconds and d’Artagnan felt the desire to fidget as he waited to hear what was being silently communicated between the two. As the Gascon was preparing to interject, Athos’ face shifted, the expression changing from determination to acceptance, and a smile appeared on the medic’s face, the man apparently having been the winner of their silent battle of wills.

 

While d’Artagnan watched, Athos removed his doublet, hanging it over the back of a chair before sitting down at the edge of the bed to slip off his boots. The young man watched incredulously as Athos leaned back in the bed, tucking in closely to Porthos’ side while being careful not to disturb him or cause him any additional pain. Once he was settled, Aramis pulled the blankets up to cover both his friends and then placed a hand on Athos’ shoulder, letting his touch communicate what words could not. Lifting his hand away, Aramis turned from the bed and with a nod of his head toward d’Artagnan, bustled them both out of the room.

 

The Gascon was astonished at what he’d just witnessed, unable to understand why the older man had gotten into bed with their injured friend and even how Aramis had convinced him to do so in the first place. When they’d put enough distance between themselves and the bedroom, but had not yet reached the sitting room where Bonnaire waited, d’Artagnan lifted a hand to Aramis’ arm, pulling him to a stop. “Why is Athos in bed with Porthos?” he asked, concerned that perhaps the large Musketeer’s condition was worse than he’d imagined.

 

Aramis gave a soft smile as he replied, “Because Porthos is hurt.”

 

The answer did nothing to assuage the Gascon’s puzzlement so he pressed on, doggedly determined to understand. “Is Porthos in danger?”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed slightly in confusion before easing into an expression of amusement, “Nothing more than the usual concerns with wounds such as these, but he so far seems free from infection and should recover well.” The medic began to turn in preparation to walk away, but d’Artagnan’s hand on his bicep halted him once more. He raised a questioning eyebrow at the young man.

 

“Then why is Athos staying with him, and in bed, no less?” the Gascon asked.

 

Understanding began to dawn on Aramis’ face and he reminded himself that to an outsider, their behaviours might seem somewhat strange. Nevertheless, it had been a very long time since they had allowed someone outside their group to witness their most intimate interactions and the realization stunned him, given that d’Artagnan didn’t feel like an outsider at all. Placing a warm hand on the young man’s shoulder, the medic tried to clarify, “d’Artagnan, we are brothers and, as such, we will always care for any among us who is sick or hurt.” The expression on the Gascon’s face didn’t change and Aramis realized he’d need to explain further. “As soldiers, we have all experienced times when we have been vulnerable and needed others’ help. In those times, we have discovered that the warmth of a brother lying next to us eases our pain and helps us rest easier.”

 

The Gascon’s face lightened and Aramis knew the boy was finally beginning to understand. d’Artagnan nodded as he questioned, “So, why didn’t you stay with Porthos?”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed once more as he countered, “I’m not the one needing comfort and Athos will feel much better after resting in the safety of his brother.” The answer completely confounded the Gascon but the medic didn’t give him any further opportunity to probe further, walking away to return to Bonnaire.

 

Aramis seemed to think that it was for Athos’ sake, not Porthos’, that the two should share a bed for the night. The medic’s reply was completely unsatisfactory and created more questions for the Gascon, but it was apparent that he would find no more answers tonight. Breathing out a sigh of frustration, d’Artagnan resigned himself to the fact that he would remain in the dark for a while longer. Moving down the hallway to the sitting room, he had no idea that Athos’ true needs would be revealed to him later when he returned to the estate to find Athos alone with his home burning around him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “d’Artagnan, he is my brother and the one with the greatest need will always have the bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful reaction to this story! I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

“Stay out of this. You’re not even a Musketeer!” Marsac’s words had stung but not nearly as much as the fact that none of the others had countered the former soldier’s words. It was a sobering moment that had the Gascon again wondering about his place among the three men who seemed to fit together as though intricate pieces of a singular, complex puzzle. There was little time for contemplation, however, as events unfolded quickly, Marsac’s accusations stirring up discord between the three men and casting doubt on their Captain’s past actions.

 

Porthos had been quick to defend Treville and d’Artagnan could see the same doubt lingering in Athos’ eyes, his unwillingness to believe the Captain could be guilty of any wrongdoing easily read by those who knew him well, a claim that d’Artagnan was surprised to find he was able to make all the more frequently. Tempers had flared at that point as things came to a head, Aramis discovering the absence of any orders regarding the training exercise at Savoy, which implicated their commander simply because the lack of papers was so out of character for the man.

 

Things escalated quickly from there, culminating with Aramis’ killing of his long-time friend and the man who had at once saved him and cursed him with the dubious honor of being the only survivor of the massacre which had taken twenty of their brothers from them. When they came upon the scene in the armory, d’Artagnan could feel the raw terror rolling off his friends in waves, the fear that it had been Aramis who had fallen nearly a tangible thing that made the air thick and heavy. The coppery scent of blood blanketed the room and d’Artagnan swallowed thickly against the feeling of sickness, not usually affected in such a manner but struggling with the knowledge that it was Marsac’s blood which had been spilled by a friend.

 

It was not Marsac he worried for, but Aramis, the man having been in the clutches of shame and guilt for too long as a result of his survival. The former Musketeer’s arrival had brought all of the memories and, most importantly, the images of Savoy to the forefront of the Spaniard’s thoughts and he’d been going through the motions of being alright for days. Now, as he cradled Marsac’s dead body in his arms, d’Artagnan was certain his friend was broken, no longer able to hold back the floodgate of nightmarish memories and emotions that had for too long sat just beneath the surface of his thin veneer of control. Aramis rocked gently and Treville exchanged a cautious look with Athos and Porthos; apparently the Captain was also versed in the language of their silent communication and d’Artagnan felt a pang of envy at the realization.

 

The two Musketeers moved forward carefully, approaching Aramis as if he were a wounded animal and perhaps, in some ways, he was. It was unclear whether the two expected the sharpshooter to lash out or bolt from them, but their movements were slow and calculated, crossing the distance slowly until they could reach out to their friend. As soon as Porthos was close enough, he began a litany of comforting words, Aramis still swaying gently as the large Musketeer placed a warm hand on his shoulder. Athos did the same from the other side and the three seemed to coalesce into one, wrapping Aramis into a cocoon which the rest of the world could not penetrate.

 

d’Artagnan watched in obvious fascination that Aramis would allow himself to be coddled in such a fashion. No, it was not just the medic’s behaviour that was unusual, but Athos’ and Porthos’ as well. Athos, the man who abhorred physical contact and kept everyone at arm’s length was pressed tightly to Aramis’ side and appeared to have no desire to move any time soon. Porthos, whose stature alone was enough to frighten those around him, was dealing with his friend with such gentleness that d’Artagnan would not have believed it possible unless he’d seen it for himself.

 

The three men remained twined together for a long time until some unspoken moment arrived and they seamlessly moved apart. Porthos withdrew partially, but kept a hand on the medic’s arm, waiting patiently for Aramis to uncurl his fingers and release his burden. When Aramis’ hands were free, Athos carefully pulled Marsac’s body away from his friend, lying it gently on the ground, repositioning the limbs into a more comfortable position in a sign of respect for his friend. Aramis spared a glance in Marsac’s direction, apparently satisfied with the older Musketeer’s efforts, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, Athos again at the medic’s other side to support him.

 

They walked from the armory, d’Artagnan and Treville moving out the way, and the Gascon followed, uncertain where exactly they were going but not ready to be apart from his friends. He was surprised when they exited through the garrison gates and headed to Athos’ apartments, d’Artagnan having assumed that they would bring Aramis back to his own room. When they arrived at Athos’ rooms, the men headed directly for the bed, pushing their friend to sit as Porthos removed the doublet from the man’s shoulders while Athos knelt down and pulled off the medic’s boots. The Gascon marvelled at how in sync the men seemed to be, moving in silence but seemingly knowing exactly what the others would do and, most importantly, exactly what Aramis needed.

 

As Porthos got Aramis settled on the bed, Athos rose and walked to a cupboard from which he removed a glass and a bottle of brandy. Using his teeth to uncork the bottle, he poured a generous measure into the cup, moving back to the bed and handing it to the Spaniard. Aramis took it with a hint of a smile, raising it in a silent toast to his fallen comrade and then downing it in one large gulp. Without being asked, Athos refilled it and waited for Aramis to drain it once more before taking the empty glass from his hand.

 

Porthos in the meantime had removed his weapons, doublet and boots and now waited patiently for Aramis to finish. When the sharpshooter had emptied the glass for the second time, he moved closer and sat on the bed, waiting for Aramis to scoot over and make room. Wordlessly, Porthos eased himself onto the bed, maintaining his upright position but now leaning against the wall at the head of the mattress, opening his arms and embracing the medic who leaned against the larger man’s broad chest. The Gascon was enthralled by the sight of the two men on the bed, Aramis closing his eyes as soon as he was wrapped in Porthos’ strong embrace and falling quickly into sleep while the large man’s chin tipped down to rest on Aramis’ head.

 

Athos motioned to him and d’Artagnan followed reluctantly, the two moving several feet away to sit at the table after the older man had gotten two more glasses. As he poured, the Gascon could no longer keep his curiosity in check and he whispered his question so as not to disturb the two drowsing men. “Will he be alright?”

 

Athos settled the half-empty brandy bottle on the table and took a sip from his glass, seemingly considering how best to respond to the young man’s question. “Aramis will recover as he has in the past; we will make sure of it.”

 

The Gascon gave a thoughtful nod, another question already on his lips, “Why here, Athos?”

 

The older Musketeer cocked his head inquiringly as though not understanding the question. “My rooms are the largest and the only space that can fit all four of us comfortably.”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, “But wouldn’t it have been easier to just take Aramis back to his room at the garrison.” At the confused look on Athos’ face, he continued. “I mean, Athos, he’s put you out of your bed.”

 

Realization dawned for the older Musketeer and he allowed a rare, fond smile to grace his lips. “d’Artagnan, he is my brother and the one with the greatest need will always have the bed.”

 

The answer baffled d’Artagnan much in the same way that Aramis’ had when they’d been at Athos’ house, but the older man seemed unprepared to elaborate further, having fallen quiet and sipping his drink, his eyes never moving far from their sleeping friends. The Gascon stifled the sigh that threatened to escape and had a drink from his own glass, silently promising himself that he would someday discover the real reason for these men’s odd behaviour.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Extra blankets are in the chest at the foot of the bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the interest in this story. I'm glad to hear that it's providing the cuddly, brotherly moments some folks were looking for!

It had been amusing to watch as Ninon de Larroque had taken an interest in their quiet friend. Unlike Aramis, the older man remained stubbornly unaffected by feminine wiles and did not seek out the comforting warmth of a woman’s arms. Unlike Porthos, Athos maintained a certain distance about him that was often off-putting to others and made him difficult to like. Unlike d’Artagnan, the older Musketeer possessed none of the passion of youth, seemingly uninterested in pursuing the fairer sex and, more often than not, content to be alone with his own company. The Comtesse de Larroque, however, found Athos intriguing and invited him to dinner.

 

Their verbal sparring had been a pleasure to observe, but nowhere near as much fun as the obvious discomfort the lady’s attentions had prompted in their normally unflappable friend. Neither Aramis nor Porthos had any notion of why the older Musketeer avoided women’s affections but d’Artagnan, for once, had information the others did not, having been entrusted with Athos’ confession regarding his wife on that night many months ago when the man’s house had burned to the ground. As a result, he resisted the temptation to tease his friend as much as the other two although, to be fair, it would have seemed out of character to have abstained entirely, but he liked to think that his ribbing was of a more gentler nature than that of his friends.

 

While Athos persisted in adamantly denying his attraction to Ninon, the others were not so easily convinced and recognized that the two were naturally drawn to one another, just as the earth is to the sun. The friends encouraged the relationship between the two, Aramis going so far as to accompany the anxious Musketeer to the lady’s house for their evening meal. When Ninon’s duplicity was discovered, Athos withdrew, hardening his heart once more in an attempt to protect himself from the manipulations of yet another beautiful woman. Again, d’Artagnan held his tongue and shared none of what he knew about his friend’s past, watching helplessly as Athos’ hurt had him turning away from the lady who might have healed his heart.  

 

It became apparent that the older man was not as detached as he wanted his friends to think, rallying at the end to bargain for Ninon’s life and managing to strike a deal that had the woman set free from his bonds although it cost her everything she had. The look on Athos’ face as the two had parted had been wistful and the Gascon was both happy and sad for his friend at the bittersweet ending they’d achieved. Their trip back to the garrison was a quiet one, Athos having fallen back into himself, and the others respected his need for silent introspection, merely flanking him with their horses, allowing their physical presence to reflect their steadfast support.

 

As d’Artagnan had expected, they spent a couple hours at one of the better taverns in town, Aramis ensuring that Athos ate a decent meal and had enough food in his belly to sop up the wine that he seemed to be drinking like water. When the two Musketeers decided their friend had consumed enough, they wordlessly pulled the older man to his feet, startling d’Artagnan into movement as well as he followed them on their winding path through the tables and out the door into the Parisian night. The inseparables walked three abreast, shoulders touching occasionally as they made their way through the streets. The young man knew he would be welcome to walk beside them, but his presence seemed almost like an intrusion and he chose to merely follow in their wake instead.

 

He was mildly surprised when they continued on toward the garrison, passing by the street that would take them to Athos’ apartments. His confusion only increased when he followed them up the stairs and down the hallway to Aramis’ small but tidy room, Porthos immediately manoeuvring their friend to the medic’s bed. The act ignited a small spark of fear in d’Artagnan’s heart and he wondered if there was something else wrong with the older man, something that had motivated Aramis to bring him back to his room so he could tend to their friend. As he watched, the men fell into the now familiar dance of helping Athos out of his belt and doublet, tugging his boots free and placing them at the end of the bed, before removing his shirt and pushing Athos to lay down.

 

Minutes later, Aramis had undressed as well and had climbed over Athos to take his place against the far wall. d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed at the strange behaviour, wondering first at the fact that the medic was planning to sleep rather than caring for their friend, and second, curious why he’d taken a spot near the wall instead of simply slipping into the closer side of the bed. Before he could contemplate the situation any further, Porthos was at his side and d’Artagnan blinked in surprise, not having noticed the man’s approach. The large man had a hand on the Gascon’s bicep and was beginning to lead him back to the door. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him tonight.”

 

Porthos’ words brought d’Artagnan to another level of awareness and he noted that the large man had also undressed for bed, obviously intending to join his friends. The shock must have shown on his face as Porthos’ gave him a gentle smile as he said, “He’ll sleep better knowin’ we’re here.”

 

The previous two occasions when one of them had shared a bed with another sprang unbidden to the forefront of d’Artagnan’s mind and, while he was beginning to get used to the odd behaviour, he still had questions to which he needed answers. “But, why bring him here instead of back to his rooms?”

 

Porthos’ grin widened as he glanced back at the bed, “Aramis is the only one with a big enough bed.” As if expecting the words to be enough, he nudged the Gascon into motion once more, giving him a nod good night before closing the door to leave the young man standing outside. d’Artagnan stood there for several long seconds, contemplating the man’s words before they clicked into place in his mind. Athos had been positioned near the centre of the bed and Aramis had taken the side closest to the wall, leaving the other side empty, but not for long; tonight, the older man would be nestled between his two oldest friends, offering him the comfort he so desperately needed but would never ask for.

 

Instinctively, d’Artagnan’s hand came up to land on the doorknob, his head gently tipping forward until his forehead rested against the thick piece of wood that now separated him from the others. With every fibre of his soul, he wanted nothing more than to be with these men, to be one of those supporting Athos as he dealt with his latest heartbreak, but he was fraught with doubt. Porthos had walked him to the door instead of inviting him to stay. Was that because the bed would hold no more? Did the others view his membership in their group differently than he did? Would his presence be an imposition and did he really have the right to intrude on this ritual?  

 

Drawing a deep breath, he steeled himself and turned the knob that still rested beneath his hand. He pushed against the door quietly, employing all the stealth he possessed, resolved to enter and see if he was welcome, prepared to be dismissed again if he was not. There was a single candle burning on a small table next to the bed and the room was quiet save for the low breathing of the bed’s occupants. The Gascon only made it two steps inside the room, the door barely closed behind him, before Porthos’ eyes opened, pinning him with a hard look. d’Artagnan’s heart leapt; obviously he’d misunderstood and overstepped his bounds, and he straightened his back, preparing to retreat into the night alone. One second went by, swiftly followed by another and then Porthos spoke, “Extra blankets are in the chest at the foot of the bed.”

 

The large man’s eyes closed and d’Artagnan found the tension seeping from him along with the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. When he felt steady enough to move, he crossed to the chest and extracted two thick blankets, laying them on the floor at the side of the bed. He quietly removed his weapons, boots and doublet and then settled onto his makeshift pallet, pulling one of the blankets over his shoulders to ward off the chill of the evening air. He found himself oddly at peace in the peculiar position, never having thought he’d end up sleeping on the floor in Aramis’ room but, for some reason, it felt like the right thing to do and the right place to be. As his breathing settled into sleep, the Gascon missed the fond smile that came from above, Porthos satisfied that the young man was beginning to understand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The older Musketeer let his eyes drift close, confident that he would wake in the morning surrounded by his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading along and has left kudos and comments. A slightly longer chapter for you today!

d’Artagnan felt completely unbalanced, as though he’d been set adrift without a direction. The farm that had been in his family for generations was gone, destroyed by the actions of a madman. He’d confronted Richelieu in an effort to gain some compensation for his loss, but the Cardinal had little sympathy for a poor farm boy from Gascony, especially one who’d aligned himself with the Musketeers. Enraged, d’Artagnan had made his way to the Bastille next, determined to get an admission of guilt from LaBarge, but he’d been thwarted again and it had only been Athos’ timely appearance that had saved him from having his neck broken by the mountain of a man.

 

He’d been desperate then, with no income and no commission his days in Paris were numbered. If he could not find another way of paying his bills, he would have no choice but to leave the city behind, abandoning his dreams of one day becoming a Musketeer and convincing Constance to stay at his side once he’d earned his commission. When Treville had announced the contest between their regiment and the Red Guards, d’Artagnan’s elation had quickly soured, his request to compete followed by the news of LaBarge’s destruction and, while he’d been told he could participate, he had no means of securing the entry fee.

 

Regardless, he trained like a fiend, putting every ounce of frustration and pain into his blows. He knew that Athos was aware that his emotions were getting the better of him, but found it impossible to stop, the idea of tempering himself as ridiculous as the notion of Athos controlling his drinking. His mentor had come to him then, advising him to think instead of act, letting his blade be guided by purpose and strategy rather than desperation and hate. The man’s advice had not been welcomed but after several hours of reflection, d’Artagnan was able to see the wisdom of his friend’s words. The next day he trained differently, clamping down on his fiery emotions and replacing them with cool, calculated moves that were planned and methodical. The effect was startling, his friends noticing the change at once, and Treville nodded to Athos in open admiration at the improvement they witnessed.

 

When it was time to select a champion, the Captain knew he had little choice but to name himself. He’d known from past dealings that the Cardinal would not allow the Musketeers an easy victory, but even he was shocked at the depths the man had sunk to in order to ensure the Red Guards’ success. He had intended to give d’Artagnan the opportunity to compete, bringing him to the attention of the King in the hopes of securing a commission; LaBarge as Richelieu’s champion changed everything and Treville knew he could never ask the young man to compete against such a monster.

 

d’Artagnan was stunned to hear that Treville would represent the Musketeers at the contest, his last shred of hope snatched cruelly from his grasp and he stormed from the garrison, too angry to be placated by his friends. He would find out later that Athos had spoken on his behalf, but in that moment, he only saw red, seeking an outlet for his fury and pain. He hadn’t consciously set out for the Bonacieux house but found himself there regardless, expressing his anger and frustration to the woman he loved, only to be turned away. That Constance would deny him was almost too much and he left the house a broken man, astonished to find that in the matter of a few hours he had absolutely nothing left.

 

He’d wandered the streets alone that night for hours, Gascon pride preventing him from returning to his room to sleep, and avoiding his friends at the garrison for fear they would pity him. It wasn’t until the next morning that he was ready to face the three men, arriving at the grounds where the Musketeers and Red Guards were already present, the contestants being introduced to the crowd that had gathered to watch. When Richelieu’s champion was announced, Treville’s motivation became apparent, and d’Artagnan shook his head as he realized his folly at thinking the Captain had made anything less than an ethical decision, meant to protect his men.

 

Treville fought well but he was an honorable man, skilled with a sword but unwilling to stoop to dirty tricks in order to win the fight; LaBarge was the exact opposite and it was this difference between them that ultimately decided the victor. As LaBarge stood poised and ready to deliver a lethal blow to the downed Musketeer, d’Artagnan stepped forward, unable to stand by and allow the madman to kill the injured man. He was not alone for long and soon the air around them was filled with the sound of clashing swords, the Red Guards and Musketeers battling while the Gascon maintained his protective stance over Treville.

 

The skirmish was brief as the King called it to a halt, frustrated with the actions of both sides but especially with the Cardinal’s man. When d’Artagnan heard himself named as Treville’s new champion, his heart soared, revelling in the opportunity to get retribution for LaBarge’s crimes against him. Their battle was brief but intense, the criminal’s strength sending vibrations through d’Artagnan’s arm each time their blades crossed. The Gascon could feel the adrenaline racing through his veins and he rejoiced in the extra strength it provided him, making his sight sharper and his reactions faster. Despite the thrill of the fight, LaBarge managed to land a strike on the young man’s right side, under his sword arm, but d’Artagnan was too enthralled in their dangerous dance to take notice.

 

The time after his victory seemed to both speed up and slow down in equal measure, the events seeming disjointed and too difficult for his brain to grasp. He’d won, that much he could recall, his mind conjuring an image of LaBarge lying at his feet, unmoving. The King had spoken to him and he’d kneeled to receive his commission, a fact that he was aware of only because of the stiff leather pauldron that now protected his shoulder and upper arm. Aramis and Porthos had embraced him and he thought Athos might have smiled, the expression a mix of fondness and pride which simply didn’t equate with d’Artagnan’s knowledge of the older man.

 

Now, he sat at the courtyard table with his friends, trembling hand lifting a cup of wine to his lips, his body too weary and spent to recognize that he badly needed to rest; fortunately for him, the others were far more perceptive. It was Aramis who plucked the glass from his hand, d’Artagnan’s fingers relinquishing their hold easily, his hand dropping to lay on the table. Porthos rose from his seat and stood next to the young man, and he helped Athos lift the boy to his feet, turning him around slightly as they departed the garrison walls. d’Artagnan felt oddly disconnected from his body, but his mind was still aware enough to know that he was safe with his friends. When they reached the street that led to the Bonacieux house, the Gascon’s feet began to move in that direction, but his companions deftly shifted him in another and he found himself following their lead.

 

It wasn’t until he was sitting in a warm room, the light of the fire lending not only warmth but comfort to the space, that d’Artagnan blinked and realized he’d been brought to Athos’ apartments and was currently sitting on his mentor’s bed in nothing but his braies. He could feel the flush of heat in his face at his embarrassment and looked up into the amused faces of his friends, the three lined up along the side of the bed, obviously having just finished undressing him.

 

“What am I doing here?” he stammered, feeling once more uncertain among the three men.

 

“You’re tired and you need to sleep,” Porthos explained slowly as though dealing with a small child.

 

“And, you needed your wound tended,” Aramis added, motioning with his head to the white bandage that now covered the young man’s side.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes drifted downward as his hand came up to rest on the clean cloth, having completely forgotten about LaBarge’s lucky hit. “Sorry, I forgot,” he said lamely, familiar with his friends’ complete lack of tolerance with hidden injuries.

 

“We know,” Porthos assured him, his eyes alight with humour, his hand landing briefly on the boy’s shoulder to give it a gentle squeeze.

 

“Now, lay down and get some sleep. You may be the Musketeer champion but that won’t buy you any leniency from the Captain if you’re late for morning muster,” Aramis scolded, although there was no real heat in his words as he reached over to remove the young man’s hand from his side, holding onto it for a moment longer than necessary before laying it softly in the boy’s lap.

 

The two of them backed away from the bed, allowing Athos to step forward and d’Artagnan realized with horror that he was the one taking Athos’ bed from him that night. Pushing a hand against the mattress, he made to stand up, swaying before he’d gotten more than a couple inches off the bed and Athos pressed back against his shoulder, partly to steady him and partly to keep him from rising. “You’re sleeping here tonight,” he announced matter-of-factly, his hand moving from d’Artagnan’s shoulder to the nape of his neck and the young man found himself relishing the touch, momentarily distracting him from the events of the past few days.

 

“But, Athos, this is your bed. I can go…” he trailed off and it was clear that Athos was waiting for the Gascon to remember. “I’m not sure where I can go,” d’Artagnan admitted, his voice no more than a whisper.

 

“You’ll stay here tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll move your things to the garrison; the quartermaster will have assigned you a room by then. Now, lay down already and get some sleep.” Athos ordered, his tone sympathetic and kind as he moved his hand away.

 

d’Artagnan was exhausted, the stresses of the last week wearing on him heavily, but he had one more question before he could rest. “Where will you sleep?”

 

Athos’ lips quirked slightly as he answered, “In my bed, of course.” He pointedly waited for his words to register, knowing that they had when the Gascon shuffled further onto the mattress, moving to one side to leave room for the older man. Athos sat down at the edge of the bed, nodding to Aramis and Porthos who still stood observing them. “Gentlemen, you know where the blankets are if you’re staying. If not, let yourselves out quietly.” With that, he lay down on the mattress next to the Gascon, their shoulders touching, easing the young man’s anxiety in a way he’d not thought possible. Athos pulled the blankets up to cover them both and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but snuggle closer, the warmth and scent of his friend signifying a sense of security that he’d been missing since his father had been killed.

 

Athos allowed it and brought a hand up to rest on the young man’s chest, pulling a soft sigh of contentment from the Gascon. The older Musketeer let his eyes drift close, confident that he would wake in the morning surrounded by his brothers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He fell into slumber with a ghost of a smile on his face, knowing without a doubt that he had never felt as safe as he did when he was resting next to his brothers.

The plan was insane, but these were desperate times and perhaps it was high time for something crazy. Athos had drunk three bottles of wine in order to screw up his courage enough to take the shot and, when he had, he’d missed the Gascon’s arm, the ball from his pistol striking the boy’s ribs instead, skipping off the bone and digging a furrow across the skin at his side. When d’Artagnan had fallen, Athos could not bear to rip his eyes from the sight of all the blood; it flowed from the young man’s flank and covered Aramis’ hand after he’d placed it against the boy’s wound to check its seriousness. It was only a combination of the alcohol and shock that numbed his senses enough to keep him from dropping to his knees at the young man’s side and pulling him close to prevent the life from leaving his still body.

 

Milady had spoken then as d’Artagnan lay on the filthy street, her words echoing strangely in Athos’ ears, none of them clear enough for him to comprehend their meaning. It seemed that his wife had arranged for a carriage to take them both away and Athos nearly wrecked their plans again when the Gascon was lifted into the waiting conveyance and driven away from them. Aramis and Porthos had come to him then, the former speaking to him in low tones to get his attention, while the latter placed a warm hand around the nape of his neck, dark brown eyes looking at him in concern. Athos emitted a low keening sound that conveyed all of the pain now bound in his soul, uncertain whether his protégé even lived and with no ability to find out.

 

His friends understood and somehow managed to prod him into motion, each man taking an arm and walking beside him protectively, unwilling to allow anyone within several feet of the older man. Treville walked ahead of them, parting the crowd of people who’d gathered, and Porthos’ glare was enough to take care of any stragglers, the men and women scurrying quickly away under his hard stare. They would normally bring their friend back to his rooms, but tonight none of them would be able to sleep without the others close by and any news, if it came, would undoubtedly be directed to the Captain at the garrison; for these reasons, they headed for Aramis’ room with his large bed, which would once more be employed to hold all their weights.

 

Treville knew where they were headed, having become acquainted with the inseparables’ unique method of coping and understanding well the deep bonds that were often forged between soldiers. Regardless, he knew that these ties were stronger than most, the three men behind him inexplicably drawn together both on and off the battleground. No, he corrected himself, these _four_ men; Athos’ reaction proved that without a doubt, and it only made things harder for them.

 

The Captain separated from them at the top of the stairs, sparing a glance at Aramis and Porthos, silently ordering them to take care of their friend. The looks he received in return promised that Athos would be well cared for, Aramis’ cheeky grin almost saying, _“As if there was any doubt.”_

 

Athos was boneless between his two friends, his mind reeling with guilt at what he’d done, his heart beating too quickly as he worried that the young man he’d shot might be dead. The two Musketeers guided him to the bed, moving with practiced ease through the motions they’d completed so many times before, having worn down the older man’s defences within the first year of their acquaintance with their unending patience and compassion. When Athos was undressed and sitting on the edge of the bed, Aramis kneeled before him, placing his hands on either side of the man’s face, trying to get some sort of response. Athos’ eyes were hooded with shame and unrelenting sorrow, the depth of the pain reflected there making the medic’s breath catch in his chest.

 

Porthos noted Aramis’ reaction and he pulled Athos closer, guiding the man’s head to his shoulder and wrapping him in a firm, warm embrace. When the sobbing began, Porthos simply tightened his grip, laying his chin on the top of Athos’ head, Aramis scooting in closer to the older man and hugging him from behind. The episode didn’t last for more than a few minutes, but Athos didn’t make any attempt to move and the other two were happy to remain as they were for as long as their friend needed the contact.

 

When he finally began to shift, Aramis pulled back to give him space, Porthos helping Athos sit up straighter. Aramis’ hands returned to Athos’ tear-stained face, wiping the moisture away with his thumbs, while Porthos continued to hold their friend up as the older man still leaned into his side. While Porthos held onto Athos, Aramis rose and poured a glass of wine, placing it into the older man’s hand but not removing his own, helping to steady the drink as it was brought to Athos’ lips. Athos nodded gratefully once the cup was empty, Aramis taking it from him with a soft smile and moving away to replace it on the table.

 

Porthos stood and made sure that Athos was steady, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder for a moment when he swayed. When it was clear that the older man wouldn’t fall over, he pulled the blankets back and helped Athos lay down in his usual spot in the middle of the bed. Aramis was back a minute later, having divested himself of his weapons and outer clothes, and he wasted no time taking his place on Athos’ left side. Within a minute, Porthos had joined them and the three sighed as the blankets were pulled up, trapping their combined heat underneath the heavy throws. Athos shifted slightly towards the medic, the other man tucking his head into the older man’s shoulder. On his other side, Porthos scooted closer, pressing his chest against Athos’ back, encasing him in the safety of his brothers’ care. It took a long time for sleep to come but their closeness chased the nightmares away and made the rest that they got deep and dreamless. When morning came, their first thoughts were of the Gascon, and they rose and dressed quickly, eager to hear if any word of their friend had arrived.

* * *

Events had moved surprisingly swiftly after d’Artagnan had appeared at the garrison, the hug they’d shared in Treville’s office a necessary balm to soothe their frayed nerves before they could carry out their remaining plans. The Gascon knew his friends were all worried about him and he easily noted the gray smudges under their eyes, speaking of a night marked by too little rest. Athos, too, was bowed under guilt and, even though the men were able to laugh about Athos’ drink-fueled aim, d’Artagnan knew his mentor was still haunted by what could have happened.

 

He was fortunate, he reflected, that his shooting of Athos involved nothing more than a discharge of gunpowder, his soul unburdened by any concerns that he might have actually shot and killed his friend. Despite that, it was difficult to face the Cardinal and speak out against his friends, but the ruse had produced the desired results in the end. That should have been the end of things if not for Milady’s scheming and once more the four friends were preparing for battle, this time for love since Constance was the prize they sought. The skirmish was intense but over quickly, leaving them with only one thing left to do, freeing the lady from Milady’s grasp.

 

d’Artagnan had been stunned when Athos had allowed his wife to walk away, certain that he would take her life and that their days would be filled with drinking as the man tried to wash away the guilt of executing her. Instead, he was the one awash in wine, Constance’s decision to remain with her husband making his chest ache far more than the slice that still throbbed at his side. His friends surrounded him and they kept control of the bottle, not allowing him to reach the oblivion that he so desperately craved. Even Athos tempered his drinking, having far less of the sweet wine than he normally would, his piercing gaze straying often to his heartbroken protégé.

 

When the candles had burned down several notches, the three rose as one, d’Artagnan startled by the movement as he was lost in the depths of his glass. Porthos and Athos smoothly pulled him to his feet and the Gascon looked around momentarily in confusion, having lost track of their fourth. “Where’s Aramis?” he asked, noting sullenly that his words were still clear, having been denied enough alcohol to be anything more than tipsy.

 

“This way,” Porthos replied, urging him forward, unerringly moving them around the other patrons.

 

“Where are we going?” d’Artagnan tried again, becoming slightly annoyed at being bustled away from the wine.

 

“This way,” Athos answered, his response causing the young man to scowl at its vagueness.

 

The tavern sat in the bottom of a much larger building, the upstairs taken up by various rooms for rent and it was in this direction that the three men moved, d’Artagnan stumbling momentarily as he tried to stop his forward motion at the base of the stairs. It was impossible to resist, though, and Porthos merely tugged harder while Athos pushed from behind, and shortly the Gascon found himself walking down a hallway before entering a room at the end.

 

When they’d gone inside, d’Artagnan finally managed to slip free from his friends’ grasps, a fresh glower on his face as he frowned at them. “I _do_ _have_ my own room, you know.”

 

Aramis moved away from one corner of the room where he’d been standing in the shadows, having slipped out ahead of his friends to make arrangements with the innkeeper. “Come then, let’s get you settled.” He took hold of the Gascon’s bicep and steered him toward the bed, pushing him to sit down on the well-stuffed mattress. Porthos descended on him as well while Athos moved away to prepare himself for bed. The older man rejoined them while the other two were fighting with d’Artagnan as they attempted to remove the young man’s shirt. Athos gave the two men a glance and they both moved away, leaving Athos standing in front of the boy as he struggled to pull his shirt back down from where it had been partially rucked up at his back.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos’ voice was low, the timbre even and soothing, the young man snapping to attention immediately when he heard his mentor’s voice. “Why do you fight us?”

 

The Gascon’s hands dropped to his lap and he examined them for several long seconds before meeting his friend’s gaze. “Look, Athos, I get it. Really I do. It’s this thing you do when someone’s hurt.” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “That’s why you and Porthos shared a bed when we had to go back to your house, and Aramis would have had nightmares after shooting Marsac. It’s why they brought you back to Aramis’ rooms after everything that happened with Ninon and why you felt the need to share your bed with me after LaBarge.” d’Artagnan’s voice dropped quietly as he went on, “But this time is different. I know you feel guilty for shooting me, but my wound is healing well.” Athos winced at the young man’s words but stayed silent as d’Artagnan huffed in frustration. “There’s no need for this. I’m fine,” he said clearly, emphasizing each word.

 

The room was silent around them for nearly a minute, d’Artagnan hoping he hadn’t overstepped while Athos searched for the words to make the young man understand. As he considered what he would say, Aramis and Porthos joined him, standing on either side but not saying a word. “d’Artagnan, I know you have seen how we take care of one another and it is true that we sleep better with a brother at our side.” He paused and drew a steadying breath as though what he needed to say next pained him to share. “d’Artagnan,” he made sure that he had the boy’s eye before he went on, “tonight is not for you but for us.”

 

The statement dropped between them and hung for a moment before the Gascon heard what Athos had said. “What?” he stammered, dumbfounded.

 

Aramis sat down beside him as he explained, “Do you remember what I told you when Porthos was injured?”

 

d’Artagnan thought back to the confusing conversation he’d had with the medic, trying to recall the man’s words, “You said that it would make Athos feel better.” Aramis smiled as he gave a nod, encouraging the young man to reflect on the meaning of his answer. “But after Marsac and Ninon, that was for your and Athos’ comfort.” Aramis nodded again, and d’Artagnan could see Porthos reacting similarly, a grin beginning to appear on his face. “And after LaBarge, when I had been hurt…” he trailed off as Porthos’ grin began to fade and Aramis remained motionless. “You all stayed that night,” he realized in wonder.

 

Athos sat on d’Artagnan’s other side, staring at the wall across from him, “LaBarge was an animal,” he began.

 

“He was a monster,” Porthos interjected, his steely tone clearly indicating what he’d thought of the criminal.

 

Athos gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement of the large Musketeer’s words. “He was a monster. When you fought him, first in the Bastille and then as Treville’s champion, it frightened me.”

 

Aramis placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s arm as he corrected, “It frightened _us_.”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze skipped to the medic’s, reading the sincerity of the man’s words in his face, and then looked up at Porthos, the large man nodding in agreement. “That night, we needed the reminder that you were safe and that LaBarge had not taken you from us,” Athos admitted, still unable to meet the Gascon’s gaze.

 

“Life as a soldier is dangerous and we’ve all got our fair share of demons. Sometimes, when things happen, we need our brothers by our side to remind us that we all survived,” Porthos explained.

 

The three fell quiet, having done their best to explain to the young man why they did what they did, hoping that it would be enough for him not to deny them this night. d’Artagnan nodded slowly, a smile tugging at his lips. “I understand,” he said, searching out each man’s face in turn. He yawned widely, realizing exactly how tired he was and examined the large bed they now sat upon. “I’m sure I’ve never seen a bed this large before.”

 

Aramis’ face lit up with a smile as he said, “You’ll probably never find another like it, either, but I believe it will hold all of us comfortably.” The answer was an invitation and the Gascon recognized it as such, lifting his arms up and waiting expectantly for one of the others to help him with his shirt.

 

Porthos grinned as he stepped forward to pull the garment over the young man’s head, “Cheeky bugger.”

 

d’Artagnan grinned back just as widely before scooting into the centre of the bed, the others climbing in after him. The Gascon soon found himself in the middle of his three friends, Athos pressed against one side, with Aramis and Porthos on the other. The heat of their bodies warmed the bed like nothing else could and he found his eyes closing quickly. He fell into slumber with a ghost of a smile on his face, knowing without a doubt that he had never felt as safe as he did when he was resting next to his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading along and for the kudos and comments. I plan to be back with a longer story in the next couple of weeks and hope you'll give it a try. Thanks also to AZGirl for inspiring this story - hope it met your expectations!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to AZGirl for the quote at the start of this story and for help with the title!


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